Blue as Gold as Grain
by II PermaFrost II
Summary: There would always be scars. Drabble Sequel to Blue as Red as Blood. FrUk if you squint.


Disclaimer: I do not and never will own any part or portion of Hetalia Axis powers nor will I make any monetary profit from this purely fan based story.

Hey Guys! Nido here!

Just wanna let you guys know that there is absolutely no historical reference in this particular story! I wasn't going to write a sequel originally, however my good friend Ashes really wanted Francis and Arthur to have a happy ending, so this is dedicated to her!

**Blue as Gold as Grain**

_By: Nido_

Thunder rumbled distantly over head and rain fell steadily from the grey sky. Rivulets of water ran down the cracked and broken streets of France, carrying charred wood, torn bits of cloth and other refuse. Despite the rain, people were about the street, carrying brooms, baskets and sacks and pushing or pulling carts; throwing away the garbage and picking up the pieces of their beloved country.

They could scrub the muddied windows, wash the blood down the drains and patch the heaving streets, but the dead would never walk the repaired roads and the memories could never be washed away.

There would always be scars.

The floor creaked underfoot and England glanced down, glittering bits of glass and porcelain that had escaped a broom lay in the cracks of the floor boards. The Nation looked up once again and setting his gloved hand on the wooden doorframe, he cast his gaze about the room.

Empty hooks and wires poked out from the walls, the pictures and paintings that had once adorned them long gone; hidden away in moments of clarity or thrown aside in mad fits of rage.

The wallpaper; a pale shade of blue and decorated with beautiful images, was torn in places, hanging loosely from the wall and smeared with blood and filth.

Unidentifiable stains stretched across the formerly beautiful hard wood floor, chunks missing from the boards in places, deep scratches scouring its surface.

There was a chair laying on its side in the corner, a desk missing its drawers in another and a small round table looking lonely in the centre of the room.

Long, gauzy curtains hung on either side of the single window in the room, the fabric horribly ripped and nearly invisible against the grey sky outside.

All of the things within the room, bore the signs of abuse and were seemingly damaged beyond repair, but none more so than the figure seated upon a crude wooden chair in front of the window, looking out the cracked and smudged glass and at the country trying to repair itself.

England breathed a quiet sigh and took another step into the room, the floor creaking under his feet again.

"Ah… L'Angleterre…" The voice was cracked and scratchy; being dragged from a throat that had, not so long ago been choked by illness and insanity. "…Venez à rire moi?" England breathed another sigh and walked over to figure seated in front of the window.

"Bloody frog…" He whispered quietly, eyes raking down the other nations form and settling on his bandaged hands folded on his lap, a long, stained blue ribbon held loosely between his healing fingers.

Briefly, England glanced out the window, wondering what it was France had been watching and his eyes quickly found the group of men clearing the street outside. He watched as they moved away rubble and placed in new stone, cheering in celebration once it was done. Though, even from this distance, it was easy to see the new patch on the old road.

England knew, there would always be scars.

"They are doing a good job, non?" The hoarse voice dragged England from his thoughts and his gaze away from the window and onto a pale face looking up at him.

"…Yeah.." England replied quietly, staring into dull blue eyes. The frightening fevered light from before had left France's gaze, leaving behind a tired, dull sheen. His once golden hair had a dirty, unwashed look to it and clumped together with dried blood in some places. An ugly dark bruised stretched across his cheekbone, his lips were bitten, dry and flecked with blood. A bandage was stuck to the corner of his eye, dirt was smeared across his cheek and cruel looking bruises encircled his neck.

Seeing England's eyes lingering grimly on his distorted features, France looked down at his lap and toyed with the soiled ribbon in his bandaged hands for a moment before looking out the window again.

Outside, the men had taken to clearing away another pile of charred rubble, unearthing the pitiful remains of what had once been a carefully tended garden.

Overhead the clouds shifted with wind and though it still rained, beams of golden sunlight danced over the damaged city, glinting off wet surfaces and giving children something to chase.

France cracked a watery smile.

"Ah hah… I am still beautiful… non?" He asked quietly, watching the brief sunlight play across the patched road.

There would always be scars.

Chancing a smirk, England licked his thumb, leaned down and carefully taking France's chin in his hand, he rubbed the dirt off his cheek and pulled the ribbon from France's hands and carefully gathered the Nations hair together, tying it with the ribbon.

"Course you are! …Git."

But the wounds would heal with time.

End~

And there you have it! Nothing terribly special, just a little bit of closure for Ashes and anyone else who wanted a happy ending for Francis! : )  
Once again, if you see errors with my french, please let me know and I will correct it promptly!

L'Angleterre - England

Venez à rire moi - Come to laugh at me


End file.
